Dancing Lessons
by bringonthefeels
Summary: With John and Mary's wedding approaching faster by the minute, Sherlock and the happy couple have much planning to do. However, can the consulting detective solve the troubling case of the soldier with two left feet? Sherlock acknowledges John's inability to dance and takes the opportunity to teach him the basics. (Johnlock. Cute and fluffy)
1. Wedding Planning is a Serious Matter

Sherlock sat hunched at the table, staring intently at the screen before him. He dared not even blink, for he could not afford to miss anything. John looked over his shoulder quizzically at him. _What could he possibly be on about? _John thought. _He's not on a case, and the wedding is still months away. _Finally, John's curiosity got the better of him.

"What the bloody hell are you looking at?" he inquired. "I don't think you've peeled your eyes from that laptop-_my _laptop, in case you actually cared-since we got back."

Sherlock did not move from his previous position, but waved his hand in a _stop talking you're annoying me _gesture that John has grown all too familiar with. But John was adamant.

"Seriously, Sherlock, I thought you were going to help Mary and me with more of the wedding details today." Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and slammed the laptop shut.

"YouTube," he said.

"Pardon?"

"I was on YouTube. Satisfied?"

He flopped down onto the couch and assumed his standard thinking position.

"What the bloody hell were you on YouTube for? I thought you said the whole site was full of rubbish."

"Serviettes, John. Serviettes."

Before John had time to question him, Sherlock exclaimed, "That'll be Mary. Looks like the postal service was out of wedding-themed stamps again, what a shame."

Mary burst in the door, panting slightly, and smiled at the two men.

"Sorry I'm late, boys. I had to make a quick stop at the post office, to get those cute flowered stamps we liked, but they were fresh out. Then I had to call a cab, and you know how infuriating the midday rush can get, and I-"

She continued on with her story and John shot Sherlock a disbelieving look. _How did you possibly know about the stamps? _his eyes inquired._ She hadn't even walked in the bloody door. _Sherlock simply smirked and returned John a look that clearly said, _obvious, isn't it?_

Suddenly Mary stopped talking, noticing the odd eye contact between her fiancé and his best mate.

"I've missed something, haven't I?" she observed.

"Oh, John and I were just discussing you when you walked in the door," Sherlock replied. "And he couldn't comprehend, yet again, how I managed to deduce everything about your situation without having been told anything." He turned to the soldier, "Honestly, John, you've lived with me long enough to expect such things. You don't have to be so impressed every time I do so much as say the alphabet in the correct order."

John's cheeks hid the slightest tint of pink in them as Sherlock began rattling off deductions.

"Mary said she would be at Baker Street by 3:30 p.m. today but didn't arrive until 4:15. Obviously, there was some sort of significant delay in her schedule. All there was left to do was narrow it down. Yesterday she mentioned the necessity to place an order for the flower arrangements, book a wedding photographer, and acquire all the stationary and stamps needed to send out invitations. Now, the delay was most likely caused by a shortage of an item we needed. The flowers and photographer wouldn't cause any significant delay to obtain, since the actual goods won't be needed until the wedding. Obvious. The only thing left to do was to determine which item caused the hold-up - the stationary or the stamps. Recalling our conversation from the other day, the stationary you chose was very plain, simple, and easy to come by. The stamps, however, were limited edition and personalized with sappy, cliché wedding quotes. Those would have been harder to find and all in all more likely to cause a delay. Obviously."

John rolled his eyes. "You must be so proud of yourself, being able to show off at all hours of the day. How'd you know she was coming in?"

The consulting detective stared blankly at his companion for a few moments, as if his question was the single most unintelligent thing ever uttered.

He exhaled loudly, and explained, "I am laying on the couch, facing the window. What can we deduce from this?"

John just shook his head.

"I saw her get out of a cab."

Mary giggled, and John turned a noticeably dark shade of fuschia.

"Yes, yes, of course, um, obviously, yes, um, wedding details! Let's talk about the wedding, shall we? Can't get married without preparation, am I right? Weddings, yes!"

Sherlock grinned, re-opened his (John's) laptop, and got to work. Wedding planning, after all, was a serious matter. It was to Sherlock, anyway.


	2. John's got a Dilemma

After several hours of mindless chatter between Mary and Sherlock about ribbons and lilies and the difference between purple and lilac (who the bloody hell cares, frankly?), John was all too anxious to get away from all the planning.

"Don't you think you've had enough for today?" he pleaded. "You've been planning for hours. Let's pick this up again in the morning."

"Oh, but John," Mary whined, "We're just about finished. Please, can we just discuss the dances for the reception?"

John tensed up a bit, and nodded his head in defeat. Mary beamed.

"Alright, now, we can't necessarily have the traditional father-daughter dance, but that should be fine, we can fill the space by elongating our first dance as husband and wife. Oh John, isn't it exciting?"

John swallowed and nodded his head a bit too eagerly. Sherlock smirked as a realization began to dawn on him.

"Oh, it will be wonderful. What music shall we dance to? Any song suggestions?"

Sherlock smiled. "I could compose a piece, if you'd like, and play it at your reception."

"Would you?" Mary exclaimed. "Marvelous! I cannot wait!" She began to pack up her things. "Well, I'll see you in a bit Sherlock. John, dear, try not to stay too long. You've been practically asleep on the job far too much at the surgery."

They boys waved goodbye and watched her leave. Then Sherlock turned his icy blue eyes to John.

"You don't know how to dance." Sherlock said. It was more of a statement then a question.

"What?"

"Dancing," he repeated. "You don't know how to dance."

"Why would you think that?" John retorted, obviously in an attempt to defend himself.

Sherlock chuckled. "Oh, no need to get all embarrassed. Lots of people can't dance."

"What makes you think I can't dance?"

John regretted the question as soon as it left his mouth.

"Tensed muscles. Increased heart rate. Excessive blinking. Fingers tapping rapidly on the side of your leg. Slightly heavier breathing. Obvious discomfort with the idea of a dance. Forced attempts to hide discomfort. Pained looks. Defensive when confronted. Obviously, you haven't the faintest clue how to move your body, much less to music."

"Of course," John grumbled. "Obvious."

**Author's Note: Hello and thank you all for reading this fic! This is my first time ever trying to write anything and most certainly my first time ever putting it anywhere. Please review and tell me what you think, along with if you have suggestions or corrections! Thank you and I love you all so much! Muah!**


	3. Balance is Key

"Sherlock, I honestly have no idea why you're making me do this," John complained as he tiptoed around the flat with a pile of books on his head.

"Balance, John. If you do not have proper balance, you cannot even hope to succeed while dancing."

"Yeah, but-" The books tumbled to the floor and landed with a satisfying thud.

"Drat." John cursed under his breath as Sherlock smirked and picked up the books. He placed them on his head and began twirling and moving with the grace of an antelope prancing happily through the forest.

"Oh for God's sake-how do you do that?" John inquired, slightly annoyed at his former flat mate for giving even more proof that he can, indeed, do everything well.

"I love to dance," Sherlock replied. "Here." He placed the books back on John's head. "Keep your weight centered, and stay planted on your toes."

As he spoke, his hand lightly brushed against John's stomach, showing him where to concentrate all of his weight. John blushed. _Why does he have to be so… so… fantastic? At everything. There's nothing he can't do. Good Lord,_ he thought. However, he was able to follow Sherlock's instructions in spite of his wandering mind.

_Step, step, watch the loose floorboard. CRASH. John, I've told you a million times, alright, try again. Step, step, tiptoe tiptoe step, there's a table there, John. CRASH. Really? Fine, again. Step, step, step, here comes Ms. Hudson. Oh do keep going, John, she's just the landlady. Step, step, shuffle, step, now you're getting the hang of it. Step, step, tiptoe. CRASH. Obviously not. Again._

2 hours and, admittedly, several drinks later, John could finally walk a length of the flat without creating a literary avalanche. Although he was slightly miffed at Sherlock's less-than-admirable teaching methods and fairly humiliating exercises, he was grateful for the help. He was going to need it.

"I better be off, then. Got to work early over at the surgery tomorrow."

"Yes of course. Goodnight, John."

John headed to the door, but just as he was leaving, he spun around.

"Oh, and do you think you could maybe not tell Mary about this? She might… well-"

"I understand. I'll see you later, John," Sherlock interrupted.

"Yes. Good. Um, thank you. G'night!"

John left 221B Baker Street, leaving Sherlock at the window, smiling to himself. _Maybe this wedding won't be as bad as I thought._


	4. Mary Wants a Case

Mary was seated on the couch in her and John's cozy little flat watching the telly. She glanced at the clock on the wall opposite her. _9:52 p.m. _She had left Baker Street over 2 hours earlier, and John was yet to arrive home. She grinned and thought, _maybe Sherlock's found a case for them to solve. They haven't really returned to their old profession ever since Sherlock was resurrected._

Mary couldn't help feeling guilty when it came to Sherlock. Even if the whole "faked death" scenario was not her doing, it was impossible for her to miss the hint of despair in Sherlock's seemingly emotionless expression whenever John chooses a night out with her instead of a night of adventure and crime solving with him. So, she takes every opportunity she can to try to get the boys back in action. However, most of her efforts were in vain. She thought back to the last time she spoke with Sherlock on the issue.

_"__What?" Sherlock asked, incredulous._

_"__I just think it might be… beneficial to maybe take him out for a spin every once and a while. He hasn't had much thrill in his life lately, and he needs it," Mary repeated, almost sheepishly, considering her friends shocked reaction to the harmless suggestion._

_"__But… but… the wedding! How will we ever get everything done? We've yet to find a suitable caterer, we haven't locked in the venue, and we're not even sure of the date! I can't take him out on a case now, we'd never finish everything in time!" Sherlock argued, adamantly. However, Mary could see a faint mixture of both hope and disappointment in his eyes._

_"__Alright," she conceded. "Have it your way."_

She grimaced at the memory. She knows just how much working with John means to Sherlock, and it pains her to think that he would give it all up in a heartbeat for her sake. What hurt Mary even more was the fact that John couldn't see how much this wedding bothered Sherlock. She noticed that her fiancé was very in-tune to Sherlock's emotions, yet he failed to see the absolute dread that his friend had in his heart, almost as if he was trying to convince himself that it wasn't there.

However, even if John and the consulting detective himself wouldn't admit it, Sherlock was absolutely terrified of the upcoming wedding, and Mary was determined to show him that she didn't want to come between the sociopath and his beloved blogger.

**Author's Note: Hello all! I am sooooo sorry that I haven't updated in over a week! Thank you all for reading what I have so far and I hope you like it :) I hope you all have a wonderful day, and more chapters are coming soon :) **


	5. John's a Nightmare

Mary knew it was John at the door when she heard the fumbling of the keys searching in vain for the lock. He did have that nasty tremor in his left hand, after all. She mentioned it to Sherlock once, but he just made some clicking noise in the back of his throat that could almost be described as a chuckle, if it wasn't for the wounded expression lingering on his face. She dropped the issue.

"Sorry I'm late," John announced as he walked through the door and planted a small kiss on her cheek.

"Oh, that's alright," she replied, smiling. "What were you and Sherlock up to? Anything exciting?"

John cursed under his breath. _What do you do now, you stupid sod? You had the entire cab ride here to come up with some excuse, and the only thing you managed to think about was how odd it was that you never knew your flat mate could dance. Brilliant._

He shifted his weight to his left foot and began to stammer a response. "Well, we…um… we actually…"

"Were you working on a case?" Mary asked, with concealed hope. _Maybe they can finally go back to normal._

"Yes!" John replied, thankful for the suitable excuse. "We didn't want you worrying about it interfering with the wedding plans, but-"

"Oh good! What's it about?" she questioned, excited.

"Oh! Well, actually, I'd love to tell you all about it, but-" he exaggerated a yawn and continued, "I am absolutely exhausted. How about I give you all the details in the morning?" _Once I've had enough time to come up with them,_ he thought.

"Sure!" Mary said, with a hint of deflation in her voice. "See you in the morning, love. I'll join you once this special is over-I can't get enough of this program!"

"Take your time," he called from the bedroom. As he sat in his bed, he exhaled a sigh of relief. _That could have been a disaster._

Mary looked towards the bedroom door skeptically.

_What's he hiding? _she wondered.

When Mary was ready for bed, she saw her husband-to-be wriggling about in his sleep. Nightmares, she assumed. She'd be sure to make some tea in the morning-that always seemed to help when his night was filled with haunting images of the terrors he had witnessed firsthand.

John's mind raced with scarring memories of his friends dying right before his eyes, and he couldn't do anything about it. Gunshots roared in the distance, and John was frozen in terror. Eventually, however, his horrid dream transformed into a familiar and welcome scene, and John's mind calmed as the images of Sherlock danced (quite literally) through his mind.

**Author's note: Hello all! Again, SO SO SO sorry for updating so late. I'll try to do better in the future :/ I love each and every person who is taking time to read this and especially those who followed this story or me or who favorited it or left a review thank you soooooo much. You all are wonderful :)**


	6. Working is Boring

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP-

John groaned as he fumbled around for the snooze button on his infuriating alarm clock. He wandered around the bedroom sleepily until he reached the closet. He found a fairly mundane shirt and tie and hurried to get dressed. He could only imagine what would happen if he was late again. He rubbed his eyes and headed to the kitchen, where a smiling Mary was waiting with a cup of tea. He took the cup gratefully and sat at the table with his usual plate of toast with jam and the paper.

He took a bite out of his breakfast and began to read.

_LOCAL ATHLETE FINDS TRUE LOVE THROUGH ONLINE DATING SITE._

_BRITISH GOVERNMENT ANNOUNCES POSSIBLE TAX REFORM._

_NEW REALITY SHOW CANCELLED DUE TO LACK OF PUBLIC INTEREST._

_MOST RAIN IN 12 YEARS IN THE LONDON AREA._

_MAN WINS LOTTERY ONLY TO DROP THE WINNING TICKET IN THE TOILET._

John sighed. Everything he experienced since Sherlock's "death" was just so ordinary. No serial killers to chase, no bombs strapped to his chest, no murderers to put behind bars. Just routines and schedules. Nothing more, nothing less.

_Wake up. Eat breakfast. Go to the surgery. Work. Eat lunch. Work. Go to Baker Street. Plan a wedding. Go home. Eat dinner. Go to bed. Repeat._

The former soldier despised normal life. Nothing exciting ever happened when Sherlock wasn't around. There were no cases to blog about. Just wedding details and diagnoses and prescriptions and more wedding details.

However, he was a doctor, and at the moment, he was needed at his work. He finished his breakfast, kissed his fiancée goodbye, and headed out the door.

John had trouble catching a cab in the morning rush hour, especially since it was raining. The weather had done little else for the past month or so. By the time a taxi finally pulled over to pick him up, he was shivering from the cold. _Sod it all,_ he thought angrily. _I should really just cycle to work or something. Maybe I could lose a couple of pounds, too._

John arrived at the hospital and was greeted by the (overly) friendly secretary at the front desk.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson!" she called in a perky, sing-song voice.

John groaned quietly to himself. _Someone's had their morning coffee_, he thought. He sometimes appreciated a happy face in the ungodly hours of the morning, but today was not one of those days. He managed to grunt a "Hello" before reporting to his office and getting started on the daunting list of patients he had to see.

The first was a man who had pink eye four times in a row (turns out he had an irrational fear of eye drops and couldn't bear to use them; John suggested a different form of medication).

The second was a middle-aged woman who was utterly convinced that she was pregnant with a child conceived by the Lord, since she hadn't engaged in sexual activity since her husband left her 2 years ago (John assured her that she was most definitely not bearing a child; she was simply going into menopause. At this revelation the woman promptly fainted-turns out she was very into dramatics).

He saw the next patient, and the next, and the next, until his tiresome work was completed. He sank into his chair and filed the remaining paperwork. He was about to leave when his phone buzzed.

_John,_

_I can't be at Baker Street later today to help with the wedding planning._

_Meeting a friend for dinner._

_Get some work done on that case?_

_Love Mary_

He had barely finished reading the text when his phone buzzed again.

_John,_

_Mary can't come tonight._

_Do you want to continue on with your lessons?_

_And what's this about a case?_

_SH_

John chuckled to himself. Sherlock Holmes, always productive, never misses a beat.

He packed up his things and replied to his friend.

_Sherlock,_

_Be there in a bit._

_Never mind the case, just an excuse._

_John_

He then took a deep breath and hurried out into the normal, bustling streets of the city, searching, as always, for a bloody cab.

**Author's Note: Two in a row! Does that make up for the ridiculous amount of time between the last 2 updates? No? Okay... Love you all! Happy reading!**


	7. Flying Teapots and Other Homely Things

John stepped out of the car, paid the cabbie, and stood before 221 B Baker Street. As an ordinary person strolling past, you wouldn't notice anything unusual about the quaint little place. You couldn't possibly guess that the flat before you used to be filled with arguments over astronomy and gunshots fired at the wall. You wouldn't be able to see the endless games of Cluedo and operation that temporarily calmed the boredom. You'd never know that in that little flat, two best friends stood against the world, fighting crimes and saving citizens. They were no superheroes, but together, they could do anything. So, as a passerby, you cannot notice that all of those things had ceased to exist at 221 B Baker Street. John Watson, however, could.

When the good doctor entered the flat, he was greeted, to his utter surprise, with tea. More specifically, a teapot. Flying through the air. John's eyes widened and he jumped out the way in the nick of time. The teapot soared past him, narrowly missing his ear.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, really I am. It was just so dusty in here, what was I supposed to do? Leave you to rot away in filth?" Mrs. Hudson pleaded.

"Mrs. Hudson. For God's sake, how many times do I have to tell you not to mess with the flat? I keep everything how it is supposed to be, and I do not appreciate your constant attempts to coddle me!" Sherlock shouted back.

"Oh really, Sherlock, do calm down. You're behaving like a child."

"I am?" he responded. "You're the one who always insists that you are not my housekeeper. I would appreciate it if you STUCK TO YOUR WORD!"

He grabbed the nearest thing to his hand (a dictionary) and started to hurl it across the room.

"Oh dear!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed as she scuttled out of the room.

Once she had left, Sherlock dropped the book and grinned.

"I threaten her sometimes when she is aggravating. Usually gets her out of my hair for a while. Sorry about the teapot."

John scoffed. "Flying teapots _and_ apologies. It's the apocalypse."

They shared a smile as John headed to his chair. The old piece of furniture comforted John, and its familiarity calmed his mood.

"Do you want to start?" Sherlock asked, almost in a timid voice. Of course, John assumed he imagined the tone. Sherlock was never timid. He learned that from experience.

"Guess it's now or never," he replied. "On one condition."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "And what is that?"

"No more bloody books."

**Author's Note: Helloooooooo! So sorry about my late update (again!) Thank you all for sticking with me and I hope you all are enjoying the story!**


	8. More Important than the Solar System

"Now, a waltz is a ballroom dance that originated in the sixteenth century. When first exposed to the public eye, the dance was shamed for the miniscule amount of space between the bodies of the two participants. However, in the 1780's, the dance became popular in Vienna and spread throughout-"

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock's head turned sharply towards the good doctor.

"What?"

"I need you to teach me _how _to waltz, not its historical importance. Tell me why this holds more importance in your mind palace than the fact that the Earth goes around the Sun?"

Sherlock groaned.

"Honestly, John, are you still going on about this? My brain is my hard drive and I need to fill it with information that is useful. Proper dancing technique can greatly assist when found in a situation in which a fancy disguise is necessary. Trivial facts about the solar system serve no ulterior purpose."

"It would have helped with the Lost Vermeer case," John reasoned.

"Oh for God's-" Sherlock complained. "Do you want to learn how to dance or not? I can gladly leave you to fend for yourself at the wedding. Trust me, it would be enough entertainment to last me a lifetime."

John rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, alright. You win. How do we start?" he questioned.

"Well, the first step to a good waltz is good posture. Stand upright with your weight directly centered over your feet. Place your right hand slightly below the shoulder blade."

Sherlock looked at John expectantly.

"Oh, you want me to do it?" John said.

"Well, I highly doubt you'll be an expert by just listening to how to do it."

"Right."

John hesitantly placed his hand where Sherlock had told him. He cleared his throat and looked down temporarily, conveniently hiding the slight flush of pink in his cheeks. However, he wasn't alone in the feeling. If he hadn't looked down, he wouldn't have been able to miss the pink coloration in his former flat mate's face.

"Right. So, now the left arm is raised so that…" Sherlock's voice trailed.

"So that…" John repeated, looking quizzically at his friend.

"What? Oh, yes. Anyways, the left arm is raised so that the…_ partner _can rest their arm on yours."

John did as he was told, but found it a bit strange how Sherlock went into the sudden daze. Even more so, however, he found it strange how Sherlock almost emphasized the word _partner_, as if he refused to mention Mary. However, John shook off the feeling and paid attention to his teacher once more.

"Alright. Now, the partner places their hands on the shoulder and on top of your arm-" Sherlock assumed the position. "-and they begin to dance."

John groaned.

"You say that like it's such an easy thing to do."

Sherlock grinned.

"A waltz is performed with a pulse of 3. The basic box step is counted in six. The first step for the male partner is forward with the left foot."

Sherlock motioned for John to try. He stepped forward hesitantly, and Sherlock nodded in reassurance.

"Next, a step to the side with the right foot."

John followed the instruction. With each command given by Sherlock, the groom-to-be became less and less nervous, and soon the two men were gliding gracefully across the dingy flat.

A good amount of time passed, and John could complete a box step without destroying the state of Sherlock's poor toes. The consulting detective glanced at his one and only friend and gave him a small smile.

"You've made quite a bit of progress over the course of the evening. I'm impressed."

John laughed heartily.

"Can I get that in writing? Sherlock Holmes, impressed by something someone else has done?"

Sherlock returned the laugh.

"To be fair, I was the one that taught you. Therefore, by extension, I'm really just impressed with myself."

John scoffed.

"Ah, there it is. Knew there was some self-praise hidden in there. You'll never change, will you?"

John started to gather his things. Sherlock crinkled his nose.

"Mmmmm, don't think so."

The man smiled at his blogger, and his blogger smiled back.

"Good."

**Author's Note: Literally every time I post anything I just apologize about being so late and blahdy blah so I think you all get it by now. I love you all so much for reading this and hope you enjoy this chapter.**


	9. Deletion

The door leading into the flat closed with an echoing thud. Sherlock remained standing, staring out the window, watching his friend leave. Once John found a cab and went on his way. Sherlock moved silently to his chair and sunk into it, deflated. He looked intently at the chair facing opposite him, his eyes mixed with longing, guilt, and despair. His head tried to will the memories of the past few hours to hide away in some locked vault in his vast mind palace. His heart pleaded to keep them a little while longer, desperate for the happiness they created at the time. But deep down in his soul, he knew that the war between his two ruling body parts would end in a draw. Because no matter how hard he tried, he could never delete anything about John Watson.

He couldn't delete the day they met, when Mike Stamford brought him into Bart's Hospital after he had been invalided home from Afghanistan. John had offered him his phone, not noticing or minding the fact that he was too stubborn to use the room's landline. He couldn't keep himself from deducing his new acquaintance-it was his defense mechanism, his way of protecting himself from harm. He braced himself for the offended rejection, but none came. That day was permanently engraved in his mind.

He couldn't delete their first case together: A Study in Pink, as John retold it in his barbaric blog. Four serial suicides and one alarmingly pink victim complete with a cryptic note. Mycroft took it upon himself to attempt to bribe his new flat mate in exchange for a way to keep an eye on him. They went to Angelo's place, where they were treated with free meals and a candle to assist in setting the romantic mood (John took care to insist upon the fact that they were NOT a couple). John tried to dig up a bit of personal info on him, and he had immediately shut down the mistaken idea of John asking him out. _Why did he do that?_ Lestrade set up a drugs bust in his flat, the cabbie came, and he followed him to what the cabbie thought was his death. They played the game, and he could have lost everything if John hadn't been there with a well-placed bullet. They dodged the police, had some dinner, and he was happier than he had been in a while. Why would his brain allow him to delete something so wonderful?

He couldn't delete all of the cases that followed or how nice it felt to have some company for once in his life. Before that time, he never considered himself lonely in any way. How wrong he was.

He couldn't delete their first meeting with the psychopath by the name of James Moriarty. They had been all over, solving little puzzles, saving people from getting their heads blown off, and ended up at a swimming pool where little Carl Powers took his last breath. John stepped out in a huge parka, and for one brief moment, he feared that the one person he ever allowed himself to grow fond of was in fact a crazy mass murderer. However, that fear grew exponentially when his only friend revealed the explosives strapped to his body. He never had a problem shutting out emotions, but this odd little soldier was taking down his carefully placed walls faster than he could ever hope to put them back up.

He couldn't delete any moment after that. None of the late night fights, the endless fits of boredom, the countless boring women brought over, the forced meals, and every second in between. He couldn't even delete how John takes his coffee.

But more than anything, he couldn't delete the day he left his beloved blogger. It was for John's sake, he tried to convince himself. His arguments rarely won over his heart. Two long years he endured torture beyond imagining, just because each second he spent away was a second closer to seeing John again. That was all that mattered. John was all that mattered. But when the job was done, he came to find that his place had been taken. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't delete that.

His best friend, his _only _friend, was about to be happily married. He wasn't going to let his petty emotions get in the way of John's future. So, he tried to delete the pure exhilaration he felt while teaching the doctor to dance.

But Sherlock Holmes knew, deep down, that he would never be able to delete anything about John Watson.

**Author's Note: Two in a row! Woo! Hope you enjoy this chapter :) thank you all again for reading and don't forget to review!**


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